


and so we go (back to the remedy)

by cartinellihell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Vampire Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartinellihell/pseuds/cartinellihell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten months after he first sees the man on the bridge, Bucky is a monster. Mysterious news stories follow him wherever he goes, stories of bodies drained of blood and victims dead before they hit the ground. And as old memories start to come back and danger closes in on all sides, something keeps drawing him back to Steve Rogers – the living symbol of the life they both used to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, Amber (aka punkmeg) here! Just as a bit of a warning, this is the first fic I've written in about two years, and as such, it's very self-indulgent and will probably be very cheesy. I'm aiming to make this thing about nine chapters as long as I don't run out of ideas or motivation. And please feel free to leave me comments, kudos, etc... I'm eternally grateful for any compliments or constructive criticism you may have. I hope you enjoy it!   
> Also, the idea for this fic was pretty heavily inspired by Poe's amazing fic straight to the heart please, which you should totally read (as soon as you're finished with this one, of course). The title comes from Seether's song Remedy.

When Bucky shows up on Natasha's doorstep, he's drenched and starving.

It's not that he minds the rain – he can barely feel it. And it's not quite the hunger, either, though every person he passes on the sidewalk drives him an inch closer to insanity. Their heartbeats pound in his ears, nearly deafening, and then fade. If they knew the truth about him – that he was not quite human and not quite monster, but rather something in the gray area between the two, and that every muscle in his body years to reach out and rip them apart – then they would not be walking, but running in the other direction.

More than once he nearly turns around – for him it would be easy, he could take what he needed and be gone before they even had a chance to register what happened. But it was too big of a risk; he would not kill, he had promised himself that. He has killed enough.

So Bucky finds Natasha, because he knows that out of anyone, she would not run. And because if any human – any person – could send him to his grave for the second and final time, it would be her.

She does not disappoint.

When the door to her apartment swings open, Natasha is wearing a fake smile and has one arm behind her back – holding a weapon, Bucky has no doubt.

“I thought you would be coming,” she says. Bucky has no response to that. She gestures for him to come inside, but doesn't put down the weapon as he enters the threshold. Once the door is closed, she reveals the weapon – a small knife, serrated along its edges. Not silver, but it would still hurt like hell.

“Sit,” she commands, gesturing towards a nondescript brown sofa a few feet away. As he sits, he can't help but notice just how generic the apartment is – it's almost easy to forget that its sole resident is a world-renowned assassin.

Natasha disappears through a doorway, and Bucky hears a call of “And don't try anything,” as she leaves. He can see the tiled floor of a kitchen, and soon afterwards can hear the sound of a coffee machine running.

It's only once she's gone, and he's left sitting down for the first time in what feels like ages, when he finally realizes how badly he's shaking. The hunger is still weakening him, and even knowing the damage Natasha could do - hearing her steady heartbeat, he's tempted. He's not sure how long it's been since he's fed, just knows it's been too long. So he focuses on his own breathing, on the quiet tick of the clock, on the pattern of the carpet and the multicolored swirls of the wood on the table.

When she returns, she's carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, steam still rising off the while mugs. The knife sits next to one of them, and as she sets the platter down she makes sure he knows it's there.

He grabs his own cup quickly – almost too quickly, and the beverage nearly spills. He keeps a tight hold on the mug, one hand gripped around the handle and the other around the base, like it's steadying him. Then he drinks, and the coffee feels like it's scalding his throat but he doesn't care.

Natasha raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. He puts the mug down, half-empty.

The silence stretches between them for a few moments longer, and when one of them finally speaks up, it's Natasha.

“I know what you are,” she says. Blunt, matter-of-fact.

He'd be surprised if it was anyone else who said that, but this is Natasha. So he just asks, “How'd you figure it out?”

She takes a sip of her coffee, the sets the mug down, shrugging slightly. “Well,” she starts, “I do have my contacts. You tell people to keep a lookout for a guy with a metal arm, possibly prone to going on murderous rampages, turns out he isn't exactly hard to track down. Especially if you know the right people,” she adds, “and you may or may not have ripped the throat out of one of my best.”

He swallows, shifting a little in the chair. Suddenly he feels a lot less comfortable, but he doesn't mention it. “So if you know that, you know this knife wouldn't do any good,” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

“It would do enough good,” she replies. “I wouldn't need to kill you, just incapacitate you. And I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary.” Her tone is still relatively casual – god, for the way she says it, she could be listing things off a grocery list or asking him about the weather – but her eyes are sharp. Steely. She means business.

Everything is quiet again for a minute or two before he can bring himself to speak.

“I need your help, Natasha.”

“I know.” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Give me your hand.”

She hands it to him, and as he opens it, a key falls out. He catches it before it can fall to the floor, and then reads what's written on the paper.

“This is your new address,” she says, and when he doesn't respond, “Don't worry, the fridge is fully stocked. You should get a fresh package dropped off every Sunday. Plus I took the liberty of renting out all the neighboring apartments. In this condition it's probably best you don't have any neighbors.”

“You weren't joking when you said you thought I'd be coming.”

What looks like a genuine smile crosses her face, and for a second he thinks she's about to crack a joke, but she doesn't, and the smile falls. “But there is one condition,” she says, her lips now a rigid line. “If you hurt anyone, if you leave so much as one body – and trust me, I'll know if you do – I'm sure there are some people who would be very interested in figuring out what makes you tick, and it might not be pretty.”

She doesn't have to say it twice. Her tone leaves no room for sentiment or pity – not like anyone could really pity him if they knew the whole story, he thinks, smiling dryly.

“Thank you for this. Honestly,” he says, not entirely sure how else to respond.

“Do I have your word? No more bodies?”

He's tempted to respond with some jab about how she's already given him the key, but he opts to nod instead.

“You can show yourself out,” she states, glancing towards the door.

He gets up without a word, noticing that the blade is still sitting on the table next to their empty cups. And as he closes the door to the apartment behind him, he feels something almost like hope.

 

And just like that, he's back in New York.

He doesn't run into anyone on the walk to the apartment, which is a blessing. By now the rain has started to let up and the sun is on its way towards setting, but it isn't quite there yet. But even in the relatively dim light, he's able to find his way almost by natural instinct.

He tries to block out the thought that that instinct might not be completely natural. That it might come from decades of past missions, instructions and directions hardwired into his brain, nothing important except finding his next target. Now those missions are nothing but shadowy memories, echoing with the sounds of gunshots and screams, the smell of blood, the sight of men tumbling to the ground over and over and over again, each memory nearly identical except for its location. Most of the time they all just blend into each other.

But that's not important now. What's important is that he gets there.

And when he's finally standing outside the door to his own apartment with the key in his hand, it all seems too easy. He had expected more of a struggle when he went to see to Natasha, but instead, she'd literally handed him the keys to his new life. Maybe she's just trying to mess with him, give him something he wants and see what sort of fatal disaster he can make out of it. Maybe she's just waiting to see how long it takes for him to crack, and then she can hand him over to whoever she wants. He has a sudden image of Natasha as a puppet-master, himself as the marionette dangling in her hands, and shakes his head to get rid of it. She wouldn't betray his trust now - or at least he hopes not.

After a moment of hesitation that feels much longer, he turns the key in the lock and steps inside. For another few seconds he stands in the doorway, scanning what he can see of the apartment for any sign of disturbance. No one seems to have been there, and no one jumps out at him. Despite himself, and despite the fact that he could most likely tear any potential intruder limb from limb, he breathes a sigh of relief.

The apartment is almost entirely open, with very few walls to block his field of vision. If anyone ever did come invited, he wouldn't be able to miss them. He wonders how we could have doubted Natasha, even for a moment.

There's a bedroom already furnished with a simple twin sized bed and a nightstand, a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower, and a living room with a moderately comfortable couch and a small television. The walls are an uninterrupted field of off-white, and every piece of furniture looks like it could've just come off a mass production line. But it isn't so bad, considering he's been living the majority of the last few months in a string of cheap motels with suspiciously stained mattresses and the occasional rat infestation. The apartment is small, but it works.

He finds the fridge in one corner of the kitchen, large and silver and as devoid of decoration as everything else in the apartment. It's fully stocked, just like she had promised. Bags of O positive and A negative and whatever the hell else, probably stolen from a local hospital. The sight of the bags brings a fresh wave of hunger, but he decides to ignore it. He can't help but think of some poor sap donating his blood and thinking it would save somebody else's life, only to have it end up keeping a murderer alive. The thought is both funny and sad.

He's never had it bagged before. He has no idea how he's supposed to drink it – is it okay to have it straight out of the bag? Or is there some special way he needs to prepare it? He would've thought that after nearly a year of this, things might make more sense, but it's not like there's an instruction manual for what to do if you get turned into a bloodthirsty killer. Maybe he should write one - _So You Got Turned Into A Vampire: How to Deal with Life as a Member of the Recently Undead._ It would be hilarious.

There's one more thing in the kitchen that catches his eye. On an island in the kitchen, he finds a small gift box, wrapped in red paper. Attached is a small piece of paper, with a note written in pen:

_Thought you might need this. - Natasha_

Curious, he rips through the paper and removes the lid of the box. Inside, surrounded by several layers of multicolored tissue paper, is a cell phone. One of those touchscreen ones, and so thin he seriously worries that even touching it would shatter it. 

He lightly presses an indentation on the front of the phone, and the screen springs to life. The background is a picture of some kind of purple flowers in a field, the sun shining in a vibrant blue sky behind them. The cheerfulness of the image feels strangely ironic. 

Unsurprisingly, Natasha is already listed in his contacts, her name followed by several different smiley face emoticons. It takes several moments before he figures out how to send a text, and when he finally does, he doesn't really know where to begin. So he decides to start simple.

_Thank you._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is mostly backstory and filler.. but I promise it'll get more interesting soon. I hope you enjoy it!

They turn him the day after he sees the man on the bridge. They turn him because they figure that if he doesn't want to kill for them anymore, they'll make him _need_ to kill for them.

It was their last attempt to make him loyal. If he could not see past his bloodlust, then he would be nothing but a pawn in HYDRA's game. And he was, for a while. The perfect killing machine.

He remembers his first kill clearly – the single clear memory in a haze of pain and hunger. A young American soldier, captured from god knows where. He was barely older than a boy. When they brought him in they had silver plated collars around their necks and wrists, silver daggers and wooden stakes in their belts. Their victim had no such luxury.

Bucky still thinks that the boy had no idea what he was in for. He himself barely knew – the only thing that he felt was this new kind of hunger, a desire burning in the back of his throat that he didn't fully comprehend until his fangs were already tearing into the soldier's neck – and by then he didn't care. He thinks the boy screamed, or maybe it was just his imagination. Either way, it wasn't long until the body tumbled to the ground, cold and lifeless like an empty glass. But he was still hungry, so they brought him more.

The next few kills were sloppy, to say the least. Gaping wounds in the necks of more American soldiers or their own compromised agents, screaming for mercy. Blood running everywhere – a waste. But he did what they wanted him to do.

They would let him starve for days, sometimes injure themselves on purpose just to make him squirm, letting their blood drip just out of his reach and _laughing_ – oh, how he would have killed them if he had the chance. And then all they had to do was point a finger at his next target.

Guns people understood. Guns people were afraid of. But when he alone was the weapon – no one quite understood, at least not at first. Most of them just stood there in shock, but occasionally they fought back. It made no difference. By the time they finally realized what was happening, it was almost too late.

More than once he tried to resist. More than once he tried to be strong, but he always ended up giving in. The hunger was just too much, regardless of his intentions. Turns out human that basic human decency doesn't matter quite as much when you're not human anymore.

And when everything hit the fan, when there was no one left to tell him what to do or who to feed on, he went out on his own. For months he lived with the hunger as his master, feeding whenever his new instincts told him to. He made a game out of it, killing people in ways that would've left a seasoned general sick to the stomach, taking their money and sometimes their clothes when he was done. Moving on when he felt like it was too much of a risk to stay, and then starting fresh in a new town. And he enjoyed it.

And then the memories started to come back. Small ones at first, brief glimpses into the life he and Steve used to have before everything went south. He remembered his own childhood, in bits and pieces. He remembered parts of past relationships, flings with girls whose faces he could no longer put a name to. He remembered defending Steve in too many back-alley fights because Steve was too proud to back away from a challenge. He remembered going off to fight in the war and wondering if he would ever make it back. He remembered being captured, locked up someplace dark until, against all odds, that very same friend came for him. He remembered the way Steve had changed - his scrawny, perpetually-sick best friend now some kind of national hero. He remembered getting back into the fight, a train, a feeling of panic - and he remembered falling. He remembered pain in his arm and a strange sensation that the world was upside-down as he was dragged through the snow. The rest is mostly a blur, only an occasional detail that comes back into his head on bad days. For that he's grateful.

And what he was doing – it stopped feeling worth it. As great as it was to drink his fill and then some, with every body that fell to the ground, he was filled with just as much shame. Not long before he first went to see Natasha, he started learning to control himself. More often than not, he did alright. The night was best – less people there to see, and even less to suspect what was actually going on. Nightclubs were the easiest places; in the darkness and the tangle of bodies it didn't take long for him to start flirting with a girl, dance with her and sweet-talk her into leaving the club with him - and by the time she realized something was off, he'd had enough to keep the hunger at bay, and was gone. Most of the time, they were left with nothing more than the bite marks and minor blood loss. Plus they were usually drunk enough to forget what happened, or so he hoped. It was almost a perfect arrangement. But every once in a while there was still a slip-up.

 

And that's why now he has a fridge full of blood bags and no idea what to do with them.

The first day in his new apartment he tries to drink one straight from the bag. That turns out to be a mistake – the blood is cold and thick and nearly as disgusting as the one time, literally decades ago, that he tried to make a smoothie out of kale. Yes, he knows it's healthy, but he also knows that anyone who claims to genuinely enjoy the taste is doing nothing short of lying.

So he decides to boil it, considering he doesn't have any better ideas. He finds a pot and a mug in one of the cabinets in the kitchen, once more amazed at Natasha's ability to think of literally everything, places the mug to the side, and is in the middle of pouring the bag's contents into the pot to boil when she texts him.

_How's yr day so fr? What'r u up to?_

For an illustrious assassin who's fluent in several languages and probably capable in several more, the lack of complete words in Natasha's already short message is moderately astounding. He puts the half-empty bag down and types up a response - it takes a few moments before he sends it, mostly due to a surprisingly long string of typos.

_Oh, pretty good. Just brooding, writing angsty poetry, sparkling in the sunlight – you know, the typical vampire stuff._

He decides not to mention the fact that he's literally trying to boil a bag of blood. Or the fact that he still hasn't eaten since before he went to visit her and is now pretty tempted to abandon that bag of blood, go outside and actually chow down on someone - you know, the typical vampire stuff.

_ Sounds like fu _ _n. U talked to Steve yet?_

The sudden change of topic throws him for a loop, and he responds the only way he can think to.

_Natasha, I've literally been here less than 24 hrs. Of course I've talked to Steve. I've also ended world hunger, adopted one million homeless kittens, and started working on a presidential campaign. I've even got a catchy slogan. Would you like to hear it?_

Natasha's next text comes quickly – and by quickly he means he's barely able to pick up the bag and start emptying it again before his phone buzzes. 

_No thnx. I was just wondering._

He's unable to think of a good answer – snarky or otherwise – to that one, so he decides to just let it slide. Within a few minutes he receives one more message:

_Gtg. Remember our deal._

It sounds pretty final – and a little ominous, if he's being honest with himself – so he puts the phone down and returns to the stove. So far nothing smells burnt, so he must be doing at least a half-decent job. 

 

The blood itself doesn't turn out so bad. A few more minutes of boiling – with the temperature set at just a tad over medium on the oven's dial - is just the right amount of time to get rid of the cold and the unpleasant thick texture. He pours some into the mug and puts the rest back in the fridge for later. It has a hint of a strange taste that must have come from the hospital, but he decides it's almost as good as the real thing. It's definitely better than killing anyone.

By the time Bucky has finished up the contents of the mug, it feels like the day is almost over. But a quick look at the clock in the living room – which says 11:31 a.m. - and the weather outside – which certainly looks like 11:31 a.m., not that he's a great one to judge, considering he hasn't paid attention to time at all for the past few months – soon prove otherwise. As tired as he is, he's still definitely not going to stay inside all day. The last few months were spent practically always on the move, and habits like that are hard to break.

After a few moments of scrounging in the pockets of his jeans – which feel and honestly look like he's been wearing them the whole week, and he probably has – Bucky finds a grand total of twenty-one dollars and fifty-seven cents. It's not a huge amount of money, but it should be able to get him a couple things. Most of it is probably left over from his earlier hunts, and it's some sort of miracle he hasn't spent it all yet. But then again, it's not like he needs to buy food or anything.

So he sets out from the apartment with a small sum of money and a half-formed idea of where to go, but zero idea of how to actually get there. It turns out that his knowledge of the city doesn't include the locations of discount shops.

While it is true that he doesn't have any immediate neighbors, it isn't long before he runs into people. There's a couple of girls standing against a nearby building, both of them holding their phones and occasionally looking up at each other to burst into a stream of giggles. They look to be between sixteen and eighteen – high schoolers most likely, or young college students at the most. As he approaches, the giggling stops and they start to look uneasy. He imagines how he looks – almost sickly pale, dark hair unwashed and tangled, jeans and dark hoodie stained and wrinkled, but still relatively muscular and much taller than them. He toys with the idea of smiling as he approaches, but it just seems even more wrong. It doesn't help that, despite the fact that he just ate, his eyes keep being drawn to their necks – delicate and exposed by low v-neck shirts. This bagged blood diet thing is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

He forces himself to look in the general direction of their eyes and asks, “Excuse me, can you tell me where the nearest thrift store is? Or dollar store?”

They giggle again – nervously this time – and then one of them speaks up. She's blonde, with a somewhat round face. As Bucky keeps looking at her face, he notices that she has a stray eyelash on one of her cheeks. He doesn't say anything. She points vaguely to the left of where the three of them are standing and says “Um, I think there's a Goodwill a few blocks down that way. Just turn right at the record store.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking a chance on giving them a small smile as he walks away. Apparently relearning human interaction is going to be even harder.

There are a decent number of people out today, now that the sun is out. The streets are busy with cars and taxis, and the sidewalks are only marginally less crowded. Countless people pass him buy as he walks in the direction the girl indicated – some families, some individuals, and a handful of couples that seem tangled up in each other. A few people smile at him, but most of them don't.

The walk down to the thrift shop seems to take no time at all. It doesn't take more than a few minutes before he spots the record store, and then the Goodwill soon afterwards. He wonders how long it's been since he actually set foot in a store and can't think of an answer.

A quiet bell rings as he opens the door, and an employee turns to greet him. Bucky nods in response and walks over to the aisles.

The shopping trip turns out fairly successful – after spending about an hour browsing around the store and trying things on, an experience that now feels incredibly foreign - he has two new pairs of jeans, a t-shirt, a thin hoodie, and a small metal flask, with seventy cents to spare. The clothing isn't perfect, but it fits decently enough and doesn't have any obvious stains, so it'll work for now. The flask just seems like it might be necessary, and he tries not to think about how many people may have used it before.

By the time he walks back out of the shop's doors he guesses it's just about one, and the crowds outside have not diminished at all. If anything, the city seems even more chaotic than it did earlier. Regardless of the overall vibrancy of his fellow shoppers, he's exhausted, and going back to the apartment seems like the best thing to do at the moment. Once he returns, he takes a quick shower almost mechanically, not stopping to relish the feeling of warm water on his back, and then turns in for the night before the clock chimes two in the afternoon.

For a few hours he lies in bed, his time split between intermittent periods of sleep and semi-consciousness, occasionally peppered by dreams or distorted memories. He could have lain there for god knows how long, and most likely would have, if not for one final interruption.

The text arrives sometime after midnight, waking him just as he was about to finally fall asleep. The small sound is deafening in the silent apartment.

It's from Natasha, and unlike all of her previous messages, it sounds genuinely serious.

_Come to the front door._ _We have a problem._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the third chapter! Thanks to everyone who's already bookmarked this story, given me kudos or commented - I know my writing isn't the best, but I really appreciate the feedback, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!

The message immediately sends him into high alert, and his mind whirls with everything that could have possibly gone wrong. Within seconds he's completely awake and out of bed, heartbeat racing as he moves through the apartment towards the front door. For a moment he thinks it might be a trap – someone could have got a hold of Natasha's phone and sent the message, and is now waiting for a chance to strike. But even in the unlikely possibility that someone managed to steal the phone or somehow threaten her into sending the message herself, he's fairly confident that he could take any human that went up against him. He opens the door with only a hint of hesitation.

As soon as the door swings open, Bucky can't help but notice that Natasha's own heartbeat is as steady as it's always been, and she's standing casually – like she's waiting for him to get ready for a dinner date, not to deliver whatever catastrophic news she has in store. Not like most people would be going on dates at three in the morning anyway.

She strides into the apartment just as nonchalantly as she stood on the porch, and it's then than Bucky notices the folded-up papers in her hand. Before he can come up with a cohesive question or even a greeting, she's perching on the living room couch like she owns it. Technically, she probably does.

Without speaking, Natasha unfolds the papers to reveal the cover of a newspaper – specifically, one with a picture of him on the cover. And not an old picture either, like the ones they keep in the Smithsonian. It must've been taken yesterday. The headline blares “'Winter Soldier' James Barnes Alive and in Hiding”, and below that, in a smaller font, “Assassin Spotted in the Streets of Manhattan.”

It's a few moments until the true significance of the image kicks in, and then Bucky's heart jumps back into overdrive. He wants to know how the hell this happened – he wants to know who took that picture, how the media got ahold of it, what he's supposed to do now that the world officially knows he's alive – well, technically undead, but at least they don't know _that_ yet - but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is “Fuck.” For a while he feels like he's unable to speak, and when he does his thoughts come tumbling out of his mouth in a chaotic jumble. “Wh- how did they- it's only been a few hours _fuck-_ ”

Natasha still seems strangely calm, her face more placid than alarmed. “The press can do anything they want as fast as they want, if they think it'll get them a good headline. Trust me, I know from experience.”

Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Because if they know I'm here, anyone else could know a couple hours from now.” He snatches the paper from Natasha's hands, as if maybe the entire thing is a mirage that will disappear at a touch from his hand. Unfortunately, the paper is undoubtedly real.

“It's probably best if you don't read that. It's mostly editorials on whether or not you should be hunted down and given the death penalty.”

“Point taken. Now how do I make sure that doesn't happen?” More importantly, how does he keep what's left of HYDRA from tracking him down and giving him their own twisted form of the death penalty?

“I suggest you go down to Stark Tower,” Natasha says. “Try to talk Stark into giving an official statement about you. Have him say you're under his protection. He's not fond of throwing his weight around, but he practically owns the city, so that way you could get the press off your back. Make them come to you for information, don't let them go trying to find it on their own.”

“And what makes you think he'd agree to that?”

“Because you're a friend of Steve's. Tony Stark may be an asshole, but he cares more than he lets on. If you're important to Steve, then you're worth protecting.” For a moment he doesn't say anything, and a smirk crosses Natasha's face. “So, you going or what?”

 

Before he leaves, he downs the remainder of the bag he boiled yesterday, plus the majority of a second one, and pours the rest into the flask – just in case. He figures losing control and attacking someone wouldn't make for a very good first impression. And even though the sun is still not quite ready to rise when he sets out, he makes sure that the hood of his jacket is pulled down enough to hide his face, and both hands are covered with gloves. Although it's not extremely cold out, there's still a pre-dawn chill in the air, so his outfit shouldn't seem too far out of place. By now the paper has been out for who knows how long, and there's no saying what might happen if the wrong person happened to recognize him.

Thankfully, however, the sidewalk is nearly empty. Only a handful of early joggers pass him by, and none of them give him a second look. The walk to the tower is relatively short – he caught sight of the tower on his first night in the city, and it doesn't take long from him to find his way to it again.

Bucky still has vague memories of Howard Stark – the man always seemed to be coming up with fantastic ideas for inventions, and they always seemed to end up being fantastic failures. But at least he could put on a good show. Judging by the sheer size of the tower in front of him – not to mention the giant letters reading 'Stark' across the front - he'd say the younger Stark shares a similar inclination for flamboyance.

He moves to open the doors, but they swing open automatically with nothing more than a slight hissing sound. Bucky steps inside, not entirely sure what to expect.

Despite the early hour, the inside of the tower is already bustling with activity. There has to be at least a dozen people milling around the lobby alone – some scientists in white lab coats, men and women dressed in suits and ties looking like they belong in an accounting firm, and a single woman sitting at a reception desk.

Walking up to the desk, he realizes that the woman is more accurately described as a girl – while the suit she's wearing initially make her look older than she is, she can't be more than twenty, probably some sort of college intern. He didn't even know Stark had interns.

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes,” she greets him. Her voice is nothing short of cheery, but he can tell by the way her pulse is rising that she isn't exactly happy to see him. Given his reputation, he can understand why. “What can I do for you today, sir?”

“Don't worry, I won't be bothering you for long,” he says, putting on his best nonthreatening, no-longer-a-brainwashed-assassin smile. “I'm just here to see Stark. And you don't have to call me sir.”

At that she blushes slightly. “I'm sorry, si- I mean, that's just how I'm supposed to greet everyone.” She types a few words on the keyboard in front of her, hitting the final stroke with particular emphasis, then looks back up at him. “Stark's in lab 46, on the fourth floor. He's been working on a new project since last night, so it might be a while before he feels like seeing anyone. You can wait here-” she gestures to the seats scattered around the lobby, several of them already occupied- “or take the elevator up.”

“Thank you,” he says, and heads towards the elevator.

 

She was right when she said it would be a while. Bucky sits on a bench outside lab 46 for what feels like an eternity, staring at the floor and the wall and then the floor again, both of which are shined to near-blinding levels. Every once in a while someone passes by, usually one of the people in lab coats. Most of them don't even seem to see him as they pass by, let alone recognize him; he guesses that they're used to Stark's strange hours and inventions, so seeing him sitting there is just one event in a daily string of odd occurrences. Once in a while someone even goes into the lab. He can hear their voices through the door, but he can't make out their words. Before long they leave, sometimes with a new manila folder in hand, passing him by just as unfazed as they did on their way in.

He's gotten up for the umpteenth time, slowly pacing and studying the minuscule cracks on the walls. He's so focused – actually, so completely blank - that he doesn't realize someone else is coming down the hallway until they crash into him.

He feels the collision and hears a grunt as someone else falls to the floor, but doesn't completely register what happened for another long moment. The man's face is turned away from him, his body hunched over as he collects a pile of papers that are now scattered throughout the hallway.

“Oh shit, sorry-” he begins, reaching out to either help the man off the ground or pick up some of the papers, he's not completely sure which. It's then that the man turns to look at him, about to say something in reply, but as soon as he sees Bucky's face he freezes. For several more seconds Bucky still isn't sure what's going on, and then it clicks. His own jaw nearly drops.

“I didn't know you were here,” he says, since it's the first and only thing he can think of to say.

“I didn't know _you_ were here,” Steve replies.

Neither of them says anything else for a few moments longer, and then they both remember that there are still papers all over the ground.

“Just – um – give me a second,” Steve says, stooping to clean up the mess, his face turning bright red. More than once he nearly falls over or drops the papers again in his hurry, but when at last he has everything in some semblance of order, Steve stands back up. Bucky had nearly forgotten how tall Steve was – two or three inches taller than him at least. The silence continues a little while longer until Steve breaks it.

“Um – coffee?” Regardless of his new stature, this Steve is still very much the same as the one he remembers from all those years ago. Bucky almost smiles.

“I'm not sure going out in public again is a good idea, but thanks for the offer.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flask, shaking it a little. “Besides, I already brought my own beverage.”

At this, Steve smirks. “Don't you think it's a little early in the day for that? Besides, there's a cafeteria on the second floor. We can just take a quick trip down and be back up before Stark even misses us. I know how these projects get him. We can spare a few minutes.”

Considering that he's been sitting, standing, or pacing in the hallway for at least ninety minutes with no response from Stark, he's inclined to agree with Steve. Surely a short trip downstairs wouldn't hurt.

“Alright,” he says, “that sounds alright.”

 

Less than five minutes later, they're sitting across from each other at a table in a massive cafeteria. Maybe five or so the other tables are occupied, but for the most part, the room is empty. Bucky would've thought that they'd get more strange looks – you don't see Captain America every day, let alone his best friend, the wanted assassin with a robotic arm – but if anybody notices them, they don't let it on.

Steve has helped himself to a healthy serving of french fries and a large chocolate milkshake. Bucky has decided to have nothing, except an occasional sip from his own flask.

“Trust me, I know it doesn't look like much, but it's good,” Steve says, taking a drink of his shake. “You sure you don't want anything? Food is free for all the employees here, and I'm sure I could get you a friends and family discount.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not hungry. When'd you start working for Stark?”

“Well, I don't work for him, exactly,” Steve replies. “After everything that happened with SHIELD, he sort of just... took over the missions. He has all the technology we need, and he usually tracks stuff down and assigns people to work on it. Me, Natasha, everyone else... we do what needs to be done to keep this city safe. See this?” Steve picks up the pile of papers, which he's placed on the table – within arm's reach, but far enough to avoid being stained in case of a spill. “This is everything we know about a recent series of murders – but technically it's classified, so I'm not supposed to tell you any more than that.”

“So you do work for him.”

“..well, sort of.” Steve grabs a french fry off his plate and offers it to Bucky. “Fry?”

He shakes his head again, and Steve shrugs, before smothering the fry in ketchup and practically inhaling it. “Your loss.”

Bucky thinks of how this must look, and can't help from laughing.

“What's so funny?”

“This whole situation is pretty funny. The last time I saw you I was trying to kill you, and now we're sitting together, in Stark's cafeteria of all places, looking for all the world like a couple out on a date.”

“Yeah, it's a bit of a screwed up relationship we've got here,” Steve says, laughing a little himself. “But I think we can manage it.”

“I'm sure we can,” Bucky replies, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.

 

They exchange a few more minutes of small talk and phone numbers while Bucky waits for Steve to finish his meal, but it isn't long before they both decide it's time to go back up to the lab. As they stand in an otherwise empty hallway, waiting for the elevator to arrive, Steve turns to him and says, “You never did tell me why you're here.”

“Well, it's nothing particularly interesting. Natasha sent me here to see if I could get Stark to give some sort of statement, get the media off my case for a little while at least.”

“Yeah, that picture's sort of everywhere right now. I hope you can work something out.”

Everything's quiet again, and then all of a sudden Steve is kissing him, and it takes him Bucky so much by surprise that he nearly pulls away. And yeah, his mouth still tastes a little bit like the fries he was munching on earlier, but this is _Steve_. Bucky leans into the kiss, pulling Steve closer to him until the only thing separating them is their clothing. It feels almost like it used to, except back then Bucky was the taller one.

Except this time is completely different, because he isn't human anymore – sometimes it's so easy to forget, but not right now. He can feel Steve's heartbeat racing, so close that he has to force himself to remember that he's already fed today, that he doesn't need any more.

And so Bucky does pull away from the kiss, and when he opens his eyes, he sees that Steve's cheeks are dusted with crimson. For a split second he looks hurt, and then he composes himself. His plump limps are redder now and slightly swollen, and it takes all of Bucky's energy not to just give in and kiss him again right then and there.

At that moment, they hear a soft beep, a signal that the elevator has landed on their floor. They spring farther apart, startled, and within seconds, the doors open. The hall seems suddenly flooded with people, at least compared to how empty it was mere seconds ago. Bucky's certain that his own face looks pretty red by now, and he doesn't even dare looking at Steve's. All he can do is hope that none of them notice.

They don't talk on the elevator ride back up to the fourth floor; they barely even look at each other. Bucky has no idea what's going on in Steve's head, and very little idea of what's going on in his own. Thankfully they aren't alone very much longer, as the elevator opens once more on the fourth floor. The hallway is exactly the same as it was a mere thirty minutes ago, but somehow everything seems changed.

He gives Steve a slight wave and heads back to the bench, and before long he hears Steve's footsteps echoing on the pristine floors, traveling in the opposite direction.

 

Bucky doesn't have to wait much longer before Stark finally emerges from behind the door, glancing in Bucky's direction as if by accident. “Oh, hello there, Barnes. You done talking to your boyfriend? I heard you have a press release you'd like to talk to me about.”

The actual discussion doesn't take long, despite the wait – Stark readily agrees to release the statement later that day, although he uses the opportunity to make more than a few not-entirely-sensitive jokes. The laboratory is cluttered with junk, bits and pieces of discarded or current inventions that pose an unmistakable contrast to the immaculate condition of the rest of the building. With every word that comes out of the guy's mouth Bucky can't help but see more and more similarities to Howard. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it is a very strange feeling - standing in that lab and listening to Stark talk, it's almost like all those years never passed.

 

When he gets home, he doesn't watch the news, which he's sure is already buzzing with discussion about Stark's press release. Instead, he goes on his phone and searches for his own name. Instantly hundreds of articles pop up – some of them from the very early morning, similar to the one Natasha showed him, others posted within the past few hours. Those are the ones that interest him.

Like Natasha warned, most of the comments are in favor of immediate and harsh punishment. More than one try to make the connection between his appearance and the string of murders that Steve mentioned, although most do so in very poor grammar.

A handful of people try to argue on his behalf, to say that he didn't know what he was doing and that he should be given rehabilitation at worst – innocence by reason of insanity, or, more accurately, brainwashing. Try as he might, Bucky doesn't find their arguments nearly as convincing.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there again! Sorry for taking a bit longer than usual to work on this chapter, but life got a little hectic. However, I'd like to think this is the best one yet (or at least the most intense), and I hope you guys agree.  
> Just in case, I'd like to put a bit of a trigger warning on this chapter: there's a sort of non-con scene, but nothing bad actually ends up happening. In case anyone is bothered by that, though, I thought it'd be best to warn for it.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it - and as always, I very much appreciate all of your kudos, bookmarks, and especially comments!

He doesn't read more than a few hundred of those comments before the air in the apartment starts to seem stifling. So he leaves, letting his instincts lead the way more than any conscious thought.

It doesn't take long until he finds an old bar – one he and sometimes Steve used to visit back in the day. Aside from having new tables and different decorations on the walls, it seems almost entirely the same. The familiarity is mostly relaxing.

Inside, the smell of blood, sweat, and alcohol permeates the air, nearly suffocating in its intensity – by this time of night, a good half of the people in the bar are drunk, and it probably won't be long before the other half join them. The walls, as they have always been, are completely made of wood – a dark kind, nearly mistakable for black. Usually they contribute to the relaxing atmosphere of the place, but tonight they seem to be creating the opposite effect. Tonight, everything seems to be closing in on him. For a moment he considers leaving, and decides against it.

Bucky takes a seat at a small table in a back corner of the bar, orders a single glass of whiskey, and observes.

The bar is nearly full, and only a few chairs and a few square feet of floor space here and there remain unoccupied. Most of the people here tonight are young, in their early thirties at the absolute latest. Several people are using the small open areas as miniature dance floors, grinding and gyrating to the beat of a pop song that's barely audible over the sound of dozens of simultaneous conversations. He lets his gaze flit over each of the dancers in turn, not really paying attention to any one person in particular. He sees groups of friends sitting at the other tables, laughing at their drunken attempts at humor, and couples sitting so close together that, for them, no one else in the bar seems to exist. Bucky is one of only two people sitting alone.

The other person is a young man sitting at the bar. He's a bit scrawny, wearing a red plaid shirt that seems ever so slightly wrinkled, and is right now in the middle of a rather boisterous conversation with the bartender. But there is no one else actually sitting with him – in fact, the woman next to him seems to have her face pointedly turned away. He turns his head just as Bucky happens to glance at him, making eye contact for less than a split second before turning away again. And then as Bucky watches, he looks back towards the bartender and starts talking again. Bucky can't hear what the man says, but within seconds the bartender places two shot glasses full of amber liquid on the counter in front of him. Then a group of people walk across the bar, blocking his field of vision, and the next thing Bucky knows, the man is walking through the bar on his way towards Bucky's table.

The guy walks up to the table, the two glasses in his hands. “Mind if I sit here?”

Bucky shakes his head. He looks harmless enough, and even if he turns out to have bad intentions, it wouldn't be too hard to scare him off. Besides, one of the many advantages of being a vampire is immunity to the effects of alcohol – not to mention just about all other mind-altering substances.

“I'm John, by the way,” he says as he takes the seat across from Bucky. Then he takes another look at Bucky, smiles, and widens his eyes as if he's just realized something shocking - a move that he's probably practiced in an attempt to make it look natural. It's not very effective. “Hey, are you that guy from the newpaper? The Winter Soldier, or something like that?”

Seeing the look on Bucky's face, his own face turns bright red, and he attempts to backpedal. “I mean, I'm just curious - I thought you looked kind of like – I'm not trying to be weird, or anything-”

“The name's James, actually. But most people just call me Bucky.”

Almost immediately, he seems to recover from his embarrassment and does his best to slip into an entirely different mode.“Well, then, Bucky,” he says, pushing one of the shot glasses over to Bucky's side of the table, “mind if I buy you a drink?”

“I don't exactly play for your team,” Bucky replies. It's not really the truth – he and Steve have slept together before, and on more than one occasion he'd seen some fine-looking men more attractive than any woman in the room - but those are special cases, so it's close enough. “But thanks. I'm not one to pass over a free drink, in any case.” As if to illustrate his point, he grabs the glass and drains it in one smooth gulp.

“Careful there,” John says, chuckling slightly, “That's some pretty heavy stuff.” He drinks his own shot, slightly more slowly than Bucky had. Then he stands back up, the wooden chair creaking as he does so. “Well, I'm not going to bother you any longer. Thanks for the company, I guess. Besides, it's getting late. I should be going home.”

Bucky gives a nod as a farewell, and follows the man's movements with his eyes – he weaves and bobs through the crowds, occasionally bumping into someone and issuing an apology. When he at last gets to the door of the bar, he takes a quick look back in Bucky's general direction, and then steps outside. Bucky lets his eyes drift back to the rest of the people in the bar, and before long they land on the perfect target.

He saw her earlier, but earlier she was with a friend – now the other girl is gone, and she's alone. He'd seen her go through at least three drinks in the past hour, if not more. It would be so easy; he could get what he needed – what he'd been trying to deny himself for the past few days – and she wouldn't remember a thing.

Or he could go home, open up the fridge, and have some bagged blood with no risk of hurting anyone. But what does it matter, really? He's always going to be a monster – in the world's eyes, in his own, and in Steve's, whether he admits it or not. He might as well live up to the name.

For a moment his mind flashes back to Natasha's ultimatum. But this doesn't count, because this time he won't leave a body. So he heads over to the table where the girl is sitting, confidence in his step and his most charming smile on his face.

Even before he's close enough to sit down, Bucky can smell the alcohol running through her veins and knows he's made a good choice. She looks up as he approaches, cheeks shiny and red.

“Who are you?” she asks, putting much more emphasis than necessary on the 'you'.

“You don't need to know my name,” he responds. “But I'd like to know yours.”

“Mysterious,” she says. The word is followed by more than a few giggles. “It's Linda, if you really need to know.”

“Well, Linda,” he starts, lowering his voice. “I think you're the hottest woman in this bar. What do you say we get out of here, have a little fun?”

“I'd love to,” she says, and her already flushed face turns even brighter.

She stands up, nearly knocking over the chair in the process. Immediately, he rushes over to her side of the table, puts his arm around her – trying to play the part of the concerned boyfriend. No one else gives them a second look, so he must be playing the part well enough.

They move through the bar that way, gently pushing through crowds and tables, some of which are much more inclined to let them pass than others. Her heartbeat thrums in time with every step, so warm and so close that he wonders why he ever tried to quit, even for a day. Bagged blood is nothing next to this.

“Your place or mine?” she asks when they're nearly at the door. The words are slurred nearly beyond recognition, and it takes a moment for him to register that she spoke, but he's done this enough in the past to be able to understand her.

“Neither.”

And then they're outside. The chill air stings a bit on his face, and he can tell she's not fond of it either from the way goosebumps spring up on her skin. But her pulse is pounding with excitement.

“Almost there,” he says, guiding her around the corner. Once she stumbles - probably could have broken her ankle in those giant heels. But he helps her back up, makes sure she's standing steady.

“My hero,” she breathes, only half-joking.

He slams her against the wall of the alley, arms on either side of her, pinning her there. Her eyes widen, and he can hear her heart start to beat faster. Almost there.

She leans towards him, engulfs his mouth in an incredibly sloppy kiss. He can taste the alcohol on her tongue. He breaks off the kiss and she whines – a shockingly childlike sound coming from a grown woman.

“Oh, quit the foreplay and just get on with it already!” She bursts into another chorus of giggles, moving her hands to the buttons on his shirt, and attempts to unbutton them. He slaps her hand away. “Ooh, playing hard to get? My likey,” she says. Then her eyes widen as if she's struck with an idea, and she leans forward, whispering conspiratorially but not very quietly, “let's do it with our shirts _on_.”

“We're not going to be having sex,” he says.

Her face falls for a moment and then brightens again. “So then, what are we going to be doing? Fucking?  _Making love_ ?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. But I need you to keep quiet.” He rummages in his pocket and hands her a handkerchief. “Bite down on this if you have to.”

“What?” she asks, the handkerchief dangling limply from her grip. Her eyes widen again, but this time it's from fear, from the realization that something isn't quite right.

“And stay still. The less you move, the less this will hurt. I get what I want and you get out with only minor injuries. Capiche?” He begins lowering his head down towards her neck, feeling his fangs start to extend from the promise of blood that's mere inches away.

“What's going on?” Her voice rises higher and higher along with her pulse, each word more panicked than the last. She feebly tries to press against him, but her shaking hands can't garner enough strength to make a difference. “What are you doing to me?”

“Please, calm down,” he says, voice low and hopefully threatening enough to keep her quiet. “I need you to calm down.”

All of a sudden a voice calls out from the other end of the alley – John's. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts. He tears down the alleyway, footsteps echoing deafeningly in the silence, and wrenches them apart with more force that Bucky would've thought possible.

“Leave her alone,” he growls at Bucky, and then turns to Linda, putting his arm around her in a way that looks genuinely caring. “Come on, let's get you out of here.”

“Excuse me?” Bucky asks, more than a hint of aggression in his tone. Something like this had only happened once before – in the dark, feeding looked more like a couple making out, so most people were inclined to leave him alone. Once some musclehead had tried to butt in, and Bucky'd ended up with a two-course meal. Except this time he didn't want to leave any bodies, so he'd have to get rid of him some other way. “What are you, some sort of stalker? You told me you were leaving a good fifteen minutes ago. My girl Linda here and I were just out having some completely consensual fun. Isn't that right, honey?”

John ignores the first half of Bucky's words, instead turning his gaze towards the young woman, who looks to be on the verge of tears. She says nothing.

“Is that right?” John asks, more gently. For a moment she looks torn – and then she shakes her head vehemently.

“F-fuck you,” she spits. She's still trembling, but now that there's someone else there she seems determined to stand her ground.

“You should get out of here,” John warns her. “It might get bloody.” She takes his cue, nodding seriously and then separating herself from him to run back down the alley. He must admit, for a wasted girl in high heels who'd already nearly fallen over several times that night, she got away pretty fast. Guess panic can do that to you.

The instant she vanishes from sight, Bucky's attention turns back to John, who's now standing in a fighting position – knees slightly bent, arms up, hands clenched into fists, looking severely pissed off. Up close, Bucky realizes that John is taller than him – but only by a few inches.

“You gonna try to give me another excuse, or can I start busting your face in?” he asks.

“I've got a feeling you're gonna try to bust my face in anyway,” Bucky responds, mirroring John's stance. “You want to tell me what you're still doing here? 'Cause I've gotta say you're looking pretty suspicious.”

“Me, suspicious? After what I just saw you do?” John scoffs in disgust. “Besides, it's no business of yours.”

“I think it is, considering you decided to get involved in mine.”

“And your idea of business is molesting girls who are too drunk to say otherwise? That's real noble.”

Then he swings, catching Bucky's jaw with an uppercut. The momentum of the strike makes Bucky off-balance, and he stumbles back several feet. Again he's surprised by how much strength John seems to carry in his relatively thin arms, but there's no time to think, only react.

So Bucky hits back, plowing his fist into John's chest hard enough to knock the air out of him. Now John's the one staggering, and Bucky uses the opportunity to his advantage, bringing his knee up to collide with the other man's chin. The alley resounds with the clash of bone on bone, and then with a disturbing sort of snap as John's neck springs backwards. He falls to his knees, and Bucky stands over him, contemplating using him as a replacement for his runaway dinner.

But before Bucky can make another move, John's on his feet again, looking worn down but not too exhausted to keep fighting.

“I figured you'd be a tough one to beat,” he says, panting, and then rushes forward. He's faster than he is strong, and catches Bucky off-guard. Within moments one of his hands is around Bucky's throat, squeezing tightly, but not tightly enough to completely cut off his supply of oxygen. The other hand is on Bucky's shoulder, serving as a conduit for the force John uses to slam Bucky into the alley's brick wall. Bucky can practically feel the bruise forming there, and on the back of his head – but he's felt much worse.

Yet John seems to think he's won. By now their faces are inches apart, the other man intensifying his grip on Bucky's throat as he comes closer. He's smiling ever-so-slightly, a sort of delirious, angry smile that makes him appear almost drunk, but there's barely a telltale hint of alcohol on John's breath or in his bloodstream, both of which Bucky can smell from this close of a proximity.

“Now you stay the hell away from this bar, or next time I won't leave you breathing.”

“Not likely,” Bucky answers, voice hoarse. He grabs onto John, one hand on each shoulder – and then, using all of his force, he pushes back. John goes flying and crashes into the wall on the other side of the alley. Bucky is on him in an instant, choking him – but he uses both hands, really putting all of his strength into it. Bucky is the one in control now. Once again he considers feeding on him, but the guy's seen enough already. He doesn't need to know any more. Instead, Bucky decides to leave him with one final warning.

“I suggest you remember who you're talking to.”

And so Bucky lets go and walks away, leaving John bent over against the grimy wall of a bar's back-alley, gasping to fill his lungs. John's rough breathing and the seemingly distant sounds of music coming from inside the bar are the only background noise to his heavy footsteps.

 

Bucky manages to get home without hurting anyone, after deciding that this entire plan was a horrible idea. He isn't inside the apartment for more than a few minutes – not even enough time to set a new bag boiling, which is what he really needs right now - when there's a knock at his door.

He opens the door somewhat cautiously, not entirely sure what to expect, but thinking that it's most likely Natasha. And who else could be on his doorstep but the master of perfect timing, Steve Rogers? Bucky doesn't even need to hear Steve's heart race to tell that he's nervous. He's a little hunched over, like he's trying to make himself look smaller – the move worked quite a bit better back when Steve was actually smaller.

“You shouldn't be here,” Bucky says. It comes out harsher than he intended, but he's more conscious than ever of the hunger, slowly consuming what's left of his rational thought.

At that, Steve's face changes – an expression Bucky can't quite read.“I know, but there's something I want to talk to you about – Nat gave me your address.”

Bucky crosses his arms. “What's all this about?”

“I just – I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier, at Stark's place. I know it was over the line – I guess I just hadn't seen you in so long, I didn't know what to do. I just sort of...” he trails off for a moment before continuing, his voice slightly more confident. “But I promise, it'll never happen again – I mean, unless you want it to, but I get the feeling you don't want it to-”

“I'm not upset about the kiss, Steve.” In fact, it wouldn't be a lie to say he enjoyed it. But there are more pressing things on his mind at the moment. “Why didn't you just text me an apology instead of coming all the way here? You do have my number now, it's not exactly hard.”

“This isn't exactly the only reason I came here.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, a signal to continue.

“Uh, well, Stark told me after you left that he thought you might make a good fit for the mission we're working on. Nothing major, mostly just observational stuff at first, but I think it's a pretty great opportunity. There's a meeting tomorrow morning if you're interested – I could text you the details.”

“You really think I'm a good fit for that?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I've killed people, Steve. Hundreds. And that's just the official count – no idea how many more could've gotten caught in the crossfire.”

Unconsciously, Steve steps in closer, his body tensing up. He's still not technically past the threshold, but there can't be more than a foot of space between them. “You had to. They brainwashed you, they forced you-”

Bucky tries to back up – an inch, two, three. “It's not that simple.”

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

“It's just – I'm not some hero. I'm not like you. This whole 'making the city safer' stuff – I think it should be left to the people who can actually keep the city safe.”

“Look at me, Bucky.” Steve says, walking closer still and placing his hands on Bucky's shoulders – and he really appreciates the gesture, but at this point it's a massive feat of will to look into Steve's eyes and not at his jugular. “You're a good man, I know that. What they did to you, what they made to you – you're more than that. Please, let me try to help you.”

“I'm not sure you could help me with everything I've got going on,” Bucky responds.

“At least let me try.”

“Alright. But.. not right now.” Bucky shrugs out of Steve's grip, moves backward a few more paces, and then gives Steve a shove. It's not enough to knock him over, but it's enough to push him completely out of the apartment.

Steve has less than a second to react before the door slams in his face. To both of them, the sound has a sickening air of finality.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! Apologies for spending such a ridiculously long time writing this chapter, but life (and laziness) got in the way. There's not really anything special to say about this one, and I'm not sure if it turned out as well as I would've liked, but if you enjoy it, please please _please_ bookmark, kudos, and especially comment, because I'd love to hear some reactions!

Steve does text him later that night. The message is brief but it gets his point across – the meeting's at eight in the morning at Stark's tower, and the receptionist will tell him where to go. It's tempting to ignore the message altogether, but after the events of last night, it seems best he at least shows up. He can't exactly tell Steve everything that was going on – even if Steve did believe him, what then? - but this still might help smooth things over. So he does his best to tame the tangles of his hair, hopes the circles of his eyes aren't too obvious, drinks another couple of bags just to be sure – he notices that he's already almost out and makes a mental note to remind Natasha if he doesn't get the delivery she promised - and heads off to Stark's tower at seven-thirty.

When he arrives, it's just minutes shy of eight, and the early morning sun is reflecting off the tower's walls, giving it a beauty he didn't realize it had. Inside, the tower looks identical to the last time he visited – the walls and floor are still disturbingly clean, and dozens of people are bustling around the lobby like their lives depend on it. This time, however, the girl at the front desk seems a bit more confident. Almost as soon as he walks in, she directs him upstairs – to a room on the sixth floor.

Right before the doors of the elevator close, someone runs to get onto the elevator with him, probably another intern of some kind. The guy seems tense, but Bucky isn't about to ask what for, and his companion isn't particularly keen on starting conversation either - he glances at Bucky maybe once but otherwise seems intently focused on the walls, seemingly relieved when the doors open on his floor. The sixth floor is much more vacant than any other area of the building he's been to, and he's beginning to think he might have the wrong place – or worse, that this was some sort of joke or test – when he finally spots a room with the right number.

When he walks into the room, he finds it already occupied; Stark, Steve, Natasha, and a blond man he doesn't recognize are sitting around a square table, in the center of which is a glowing screen. The light of the screen casts strange shadows on their faces in the otherwise dim room. They all look up in unison as the door slides shut behind him, but Steve's the only one who immediately looks back down.

“Well, hello there, Barnes,” Stark says, the first one to say anything since he arrived. “Glad you decided to join us. Fashionably late, I see.” He gestures to the only empty seat left, between Steve and Natasha. “Please, take a seat.”

It's barely larger than a broom closet, and if he wasn't seeing it with his own eyes, he'd doubt that all of them could even physically fit inside it. As it is, there can't be more than a foot of space on any side of the table, and he can't help bumping into multiple chairs as he passes.

“Couldn't you have picked a more luxurious meeting place?”

“Technically, I could have. Couldn't you have arrived on time? I am a very busy man, you know.”

Bucky doesn't respond to that. It doesn't seem like he needs to. Instead, he sits down; as he does so he can't help but notice the way Natasha and the blond man are sitting – close, but not in a show-offy sort of way, with their knees barely touching. He's only seen them together for about thirty seconds and he can tell their relationship isn't simply professional.

For a moment he imagines what it would be like to do that with Steve – to be so close, so intimate without having to say a word or care what others think. They'd had to hide their relationship in the past, but this is a different time. However, judging by the way Steve has adjusted himself to be angled ever so slightly away from Bucky, that possibility isn't likely to become reality anytime soon.

He's grateful when Stark starts speaking again. “Everyone, this is James Buchanan Barnes, also known as Bucky, also known as the Winter Soldier. Barnes, this is Natasha Romanoff-” Stark gestures to Natasha, like he doesn't know that Bucky has already met her, and maybe he doesn't, and then to the man next to her, who gives Bucky a slight nod - “and Clint Barton. Not to mention Steve Rogers – but I know you two are already... personally acquainted.”

After Stark's last comment, Steve's face turns a frankly startling shade of red for what seems like the millionth time in the past few days alone. Bucky shifts a little in his seat and tries to ignore the slight chuckling he hears from Clint.

Stark starts up again, seemingly oblivious to their discomfort. “Okay, the formalities are over, so no more dilly-dallying. Let's get to work. I imagine you all know why you're here – I mean, if you didn't, you'd probably have gotten thrown out of the building now.” Then he looks up towards the ceiling, and as if speaking to an invisible person somewhere above him, orders, “Jarvis. Map.”

Bucky barely keeps himself from jumping when a voice emanates from the ceiling in response to Stark's monosyllabic command. “Of course, sir.”

“Jarvis?” Bucky asks, almost reflexively, and then immediately wishes he could take it back. But it's probably the first time he's heard the name aloud in decades.

“Yeah. He's programmed to keep quiet when you're around unless I specifically say otherwise. Wouldn't want to stir up any, uh – unsettling memories or anything.” It's the closest Bucky's seen Stark to genuine emotion, and it's strange.

For the first time in a long time, Bucky lets his mind drift back to memories of the program's namesake and the man he worked for – memories darker than he'd allowed himself to think about. He imagines how it must be for Stark to have him here after everything that's happened – maybe Stark's stronger than he looks. Or at least more mature.

His train of thought is interrupted by a map projecting from the surface of the table. It doesn't look like any regular map, however; it's practically a three-dimensional model of the city, with Stark Tower in the center. Bucky can even recognize some of the buildings he passed on the way there this morning.

Once the map has fully materialized, Stark continues talking as if the previous few seconds hadn't even happened. “There's been five murders within the past month alone. The first one here, the second here, the third here, the fourth here, the fifth here.” With each 'here', he points at a spot on the map, and a glowing dot appears to mark the place. Before long, the map seems nearly covered with them. Stark moves his hand around the dots with a flourish, creating a square border that surrounds all five.

“As you most likely know from your advanced knowledge of basic math, all five deaths lie approximately within a square. This particular square is made up of about thirty city blocks. Again, these all took place within the last four weeks – which means just over one death a week. It's been six days since the last body was found, so if we're lucky, we just might be able to stop the next one from happening. Barnes, Romanoff, you'll patrol the southern and eastern edges of this section. Rogers, Barton, you get the northern and the western. I'll keep an eye from the air and let you know if there's anything worth checking out. We need to catch this guy in the act – or girl, I guess.”

Then he bends over and pulls a large duffel bag from off the floor – he's even able to do that flamboyantly – and slams it onto the table, sending several papers fluttering away in the process. He unzips the bag and pulls out a pile of black tactical suits and things that look like high-tech walkie-talkies – five of each, so one for each of them.

“Take these, put the suits on and meet me on the roof in twenty minutes. The radios are already tuned in to the right station, you can just press the red button and talk into them. The suits've got cameras built into the front, and tracking devices in case something goes horribly, horribly wrong – but since I'm in charge, there's no way that could ever happen.”

That last remark is met with a chorus of groans, and then the sound of chair legs scraping the floor as everyone begins to stand up and shuffle out of the room.

Within seconds, the room is quiet again, and Bucky and Stark are the only people left. Stark catches him by the arm as he's about to leave, equipment bundled up under one arm.

“And Barnes – try not to mess this up. Nat's a professional. Just let her do her job, and you'll both be fine.” Stark stops for a second, and then continues on, slightly more hesitantly than before. “Please don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to insult you or anything. But with what you've been through – with, uh, what you've done, even in just the past year - we just can't be sure how much of you is Bucky Barnes and how much of you is still the Winter Soldier. I think it's best for everyone if you hang back as much as possible on this one - you can probably understand.”

Stark looks at him silently for a few more moments, probably expecting a response.

But he just nods. He doesn't look back at Stark as the door closes behind him.

 

It doesn't take long for Bucky to find one of the tower's many bathrooms to change into the suit. Thankfully, the one he finds is towards the very end of the hallway, and the flickering lights indicate that it's nearly always vacant. At least, it is now; all he can do is hope it will stay that way.

He slips into one of only two stalls, changing quickly and mechanically, not thinking. Once he's got the suit on he notices a lump in one of the suit's many pocket; removing it, Bucky finds that Stark has provided him with a single small knife. Bucky twirls it in his hands a few times to get used to the grip, and then slips it back into his pocket. It's strangely nice to know that Stark trusts him with that, at least.

Stepping out of the stall, he's struck by the extreme paleness of his reflection in the mirror. His face stands out like a ghost's in the darkness. The dim light in the bathroom – the only thing he'd seen resembling a flaw in the entire building – only emphasizes the contrast between the black fabric and his skin. There are a few scraggly strands of dark hair around his face that look like they haven't been washed in weeks, and if he looks closely enough, he thinks he can see a few veins through the skin of his face.

He looks truly dead.

 

When he finally walks out onto the tower's roof, he sees that, once again, everyone else has arrived before him. They're standing in a loose circle about twenty feet away from him, talking casually. Just as Bucky swings the door open, Clint bursts into laughter, and he catches sight of an amused smile on Natasha's face; he feels almost as if he's interrupting a group of friends having a private conversation. They look for all the world more like they're about to go on a casual trip to the mall instead of a potentially dangerous reconnaissance mission. Only a tiny shred of tenseness disrupts their calm facade.

The glimpse of a knife tucked into Natasha's belt is one of the only hints of the true severity of their mission. It's most likely identical to the one Stark left for him in his own suit, but he knows there are probably more weapons hidden on her. For Natasha, going out with that tiny knife alone would be like showing up at a party naked.

And surrounding them are three gleaming black helicopters, vacant and waiting except for a black-clad driver in the nearest two. Stark must be planning on flying the third himself.

He's not sure what he expected when Stark said they'd be meeting on the roof, but it certainly wasn't this.

“I thought we were supposed to be more subtle? Wouldn't it make more sense to take – I don't know, a _car_?”

All four of them turn around, as if they hadn't noticed him arrive, or at least weren't expecting him to speak. Even though he's pretty sure that's impossible – there's no way Captain America, Iron Man, and a couple of trained assassins could have missed the way the door slammed shut behind him.

“Trust me, these are subtle. I designed and built them myself – the engine's silent as a dream and the entire thing's covered in cloaking panels. Nobody will be able to tell we're coming.” As if to emphasize his point, he walks over and raps the side of the nearest aircraft with his fist. It makes a solid bang but otherwise remains unharmed. “Plus, they're practically indestructible, which is a pretty major bonus when you're in this business.”

He gestures for Bucky to join the rest of the group, and when he does so, starts speaking again, this time with more gravity.

“Now, everyone remembers what we're doing today, right? I'm pretty confident any one of you could take this killer if you had to, but don't get in over your head. If things start going down – and I don't mean in the fun way – just use this radio and your copter will pick you up, take you back here. Capiche?”

Bucky can't help but feel like a good majority of Stark's words are directed at him, even though they never make direct eye contact throughout the entirety of his short speech. But they all nod, pretty much in unison, and there's another moment of silence before Stark resumes issuing commands.

“Chop chop, everybody,” Stark says. “Let's get going. Barton, Rogers, you've both done this before, so you'll go first.”

Steve climbs into the helicopter without a word, and Clint follows. The door closes behind them automatically with nothing more than a quiet hiss of air. Beyond the tinted windows, their figures seem almost ghostly, intangible forms on the edge between reality and nightmares.

And then Stark is shouting - “back it up, guys, back it up” - and the helicopter's blades start whirring through the air, almost without a sound.

Bucky's no stranger to the idea of cloaking panels – he'd even been in a few vehicles that used them during some of his missions as the Winter Soldier, even though he tried to think about those memories as little as possible. But he'd never seen what they look like from the outside. And as Clint and Steve's helicopter virtually disappears into thin air, taking them with it and leaving barely a breeze in the air to indicate that they had been there, he can barely keep his jaw from dropping. Before Bucky can count to ten, it's as if they'd never existed at all.

“Not that I like to give Stark too much credit, but – it's pretty impressive, huh?” Natasha asks, a slight smile briefly illuminating her otherwise tense features. Bucky nods at her, attempting to grin in return and not quite sure if he manages it.

The two of them go next, a few minutes later – to make them harder to track, Stark says – and the closer they get to the aircraft, the more Bucky can sense the intensity radiating off Natasha. Every muscle in her body is wound up; she looks like she could kill someone with nothing more than her pinky finger – hell, she might have. She climbs in and sits down without so much as a backward glance at him, barely even looking up when he slides in next to her. Intense as she is, though, her pulse is still steady.

They're silent for the entire time it takes for the helicopter to take off, which in truth can't take more then thirty seconds or so, but it feels like much longer with Natasha practically a beacon of murderous potential energy right beside him. When they're in the air and the cloaking panels have all kicked in – they do virtually nothing to the actual interior of the craft except give a barely noticeable blue tint to the windows – she turns to him. Her words quickly make him grateful for the wall of bulletproof glass separating them and the driver – who, so far, has remained completely calm, collected, and silent.

“Have you eaten yet today?”

“Yes. Why, are you concerned for my health?”

“Not exactly.” She pauses. “It just if we do find this killer, the situation could get -”

“Bloody,” he finishes for her. “And you're worried that I'm going to go berserk and kill someone?”

For a moment she's silent again; she looks down at her hands, and then back into his eyes, her own green ones sharper than he's ever seen them.

“If I'm being honest, yes,” she says, not breaking her gaze. “Which is why I need you to be honest with me. Have you been keeping our promise?”

“I keep all my promises.” It's technically true – he had come close, but he hadn't actually hurt anyone. And he definitely hadn't left a body. Still, it almost feels as if she can look into his mind and see his memory, know what he did – almost did – the night before.

“But are you keeping this one?” She's still looking at him with that piercing stare, and he has to fight himself to keep from looking down. If he does that, she'll know he's lying, no doubt about it.

“Yes. I swear,” he adds, and then hopes that wasn't too much.

Finally she looks away again – towards the window, just briefly, and then back at him.

“Alright. I believe you.”

They ride the rest of the way without speaking, Bucky not entirely sure what else to say and Natasha not bothering to prompt him. Instead, he watches through the window as the city passes by underneath them, thousands of buildings and possibly millions of people all packed into one giant concrete labyrinth. Before long the very style of the buildings starts to change, from Stark Tower and the elegant, gleaming monoliths surrounding it to smaller, older buildings, most of them serviceable but a few more run down and crumbling, holes in walls and windows patched with ratty blue tarp that rustles in the wind. Some of those buildings seem almost identical to the sort of places he and Steve used to live in. It's possible they might be the very same buildings, forgotten as the city grows on for decades around them, and he almost wants to land and take a better look until the helicopter lands on the roof of another building, interrupting his train of thought.

For the first time the pilot looks back at him through the glass. He's older than Bucky thought – maybe in his late forties or early fifties – but he's still well muscled, and Bucky has no doubt that he could still put up a good fight if the situation called for it. He gives them a single nod – that could mean many things, but given the circumstances, Bucky thinks he most likely means “good luck” - and Bucky nods back, then goes to open the door of the helicopter. He stops when he realizes there are no handles – instead, as if it senses him, it glides open automatically, just as it closed earlier.

He steps outside onto the roof and hears Natasha do the same behind him, her step barely noticeable even with his enhanced hearing. He glances back just in time to see the door close again. The cloaking panels are still on, so it's strange – it seems as if the air itself is closing in on both sides around the interior of the helicopter. He watches until it completely vanishes from view.

And then, within seconds, they're alone. The roof is completely empty except for the two of them and a door leading down inside whichever building they've landed on – most likely an abandoned one, so they'd be able to move down to the first floor as fast as possible without interruption if need be.

They stay on that building for maybe half an hour, observing what goes on on the streets below them – most of the time they're empty, except for a few cars or the occasional pedestrian, nothing out of the ordinary or even mildly noteworthy.

After that, he jumps from rooftop to rooftop towards the southern edge of the route Stark specified, and Natasha does the same to the eastern. He knows that for any regular person that would be impossible, but even though he isn't exactly a regular person, he's still relieved that most of the buildings are crammed within a few feet of each other – because contrary to popular belief, vampires can get broken bones.

From this height he can see probably miles in every direction, but it's practically useless. Every location is pretty much the same as the first. He doesn't catch sight of anything remotely suspicious until they've been at it for three hours, at least – some sort of physical fight happening in the alleyway across from where he's positioned. Not brutal yet, but the type of thing that could definitely escalate if it continued on unchecked for long enough. He's about to call Natasha on the radio, tell her he might have something, when one of the men fighting manages to duck away from his opponent and dash out onto the street. Before the second man is able to react, the first has knocked on a nearby door and been let in, and within seconds is locked relatively safely behind brick walls. His pursuer yells for a few minutes, kicks at the door – and then gives up, calls for a taxi, and is driven out of sight.

It goes on like that for several more hours. He spends about thirty minutes on every one, inevitably unable to spot anything worthwhile, before he reaches the end of the route, circles back around, and starts over. Natasha's route is equally fruitless, and the radio silence from the other seems to indicate that they're faring similarly well.

“You think the killer really might be onto us?” he asks Natasha once, again standing together on the roof of that first building before starting on one more round.

She stands still, looking thoughtful while she considers the question. And then, “I don't know.”

He can't help but chuckle gruffly a little bit at that – both from frustration and from the idea that this incredibly intelligent, world-renowned spy couldn't even begin to hazard a guess about their situation.

“What?” Natasha asks, her tone bitter but a good-natured glint in her eye. “I may seem like I know everything, but trust me, I'm just acting like it.”

Bucky heads back to lookout with the trace of a smile on his face, letting it fall as he does a quick mental calculation – by now it's probably about six in the afternoon, and still no word. The sun has nearly set, and the strange blend of darkness and light gives the semi-abandoned area the feeling of a ghost town. The feeling is enhanced when Bucky realizes there's not a single other person in sight – although technically, he's not really a person.

He stands still, watching and hoping to catch a glimpse of something, until he's been in the same position for so long he starts feeling like he doesn't really exist at all, or at least not physically. He's completely a part of his unchanging surroundings, separated even from his own body, focused entirely on what's around him. Still, nothing moves.

And that's why it takes a moment to register when Steve's voice starts coming through the radio attached to his hip.

“..corner of 5th and Broad,” he's saying, his voice grainy from the static but clearly not anyone's but Steve's - “something's happened. I repeat, meet me at the corner of 5th and Broad. Does anyone copy?”

Bucky hears Natasha and Cling chime in, and even Stark says something about trailing them overhead, before he can force his arms to pick up the radio and push the button to respond.

“I copy. I'm on my way.”

Without stopping to hear if Steve replies to his message, Bucky start sprinting. The rooftops he's spent the past several hours standing on turn into blurs beneath his feet, the road below him along with any cars or people it carries even more indistinct. It isn't long before he hears Natasha's heartbeat, pounding from exertion, and soon sees her running full speed ahead maybe three hundred feet away. Clint can't be far – if he's not already there – and Stark must be somewhere above them, still invisible in his helicopter. They could probably call for their own helicopters to pick them up, but at this point, even that short of a wait might waste vital time. So Bucky keeps going, not holding back an ounce of energy, even when he sees Natasha begin to slow – probably from exhaustion, or because she's reached their destination. Finally she stops completely and goes stiff, eyes fixed on something on the ground below. When Bucky reaches her side a few seconds later, he realizes why.

Steve and Clint are already on the ground, Steve bruised and torn up like he just got out of a bad fight, and Clint plastered in sweat from running. They're both standing facing the opposite wall – and there, slumped against the bricks, is a body.

It looks to be that of a young woman, twenty-five at most, with mousy brown hair that now dangles lifelessly over her face. There's blood covering in her shirt – there's so much, she's drenched in it – where she's been impaled with a wooden stake. And now the smell of her blood is overwhelming – but it doesn't smell right. It doesn't smell the way human blood should smell, fresh and raw and strong. It smells old, rotten. Dead.

The body on the ground is a vampire.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry for the long wait, but finals happened, and somehow this ended up being the longest chapter yet.  
> Possible trigger warnings for (very brief mentions of) drugs, suicidal imagery and something resembling suicidal ideation. Didn't do that much editing on this one, and I don't have all that much idea of how hospitals work (although I tried to do some research) so apologies for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy!

When he remembers the events of that night, Bucky does so in chaotic glimpses – brief memories, maybe a few seconds each, each one not seeming to be his own but to have taken place outside of his body. He sees his own face grow paler and his eyes widen as he finally processes the reality of the scene; he sees himself stuttering and half-shouting – he thinks it was something like “Were the bodies all like this?” and “I need to see the others” and a stream of breathless swears and countless syllables indecipherable through his panic. He sees himself falling down, down, down, tumbling from the edge of the roof where he had stood; he sees a glimpse of Natasha's face somewhere above him, sees how badly her body tenses, and Clint and Steve running towards him, their shouts lost in his disoriented half-consciousness. The rest is just... darkness.

He wakes up in a hospital room – white pillow, white sheets, white walls, and a disgustingly intense odor of hand sanitizer - with no idea of how much time has passed since the fall. For a moment he's relatively calm, his mind halfheartedly struggling to recall the events that brought him there. And then he does remember. His heart starts to pound, the hulking machine somewhere to the left of him beeping obnoxiously in time, and he can feel his chest tensing up – it wouldn't be long until every breath starts to feel like a superhuman effort. Because there's no way that was just a coincidence – he'd known other vampires existed, sure, but he'd never met one, and he sure as hell hadn't expected to run into a _dead_ one. Even through the haze of pain and of drugs he's sure have been pumped into him, he knows that means only one thing – someone knows about him. And that someone is dangerous – they'd probably be willing to hurt Steve and Natasha and Tony and god knows who else to get to him, and if they had the power to kill a vampire, they could certainly do some damage. He lets out another curse, even as his lungs seem to be running out of air.

With an effort, he's finally able to get himself to calm down, and as he sits up and reaches for the glass of water on the small table beside him, a nurse takes the opportunity to check in on him.

“Well, Sergeant Barnes, I see you're feeling better,” she says in a voice that sounds chipper but surprisingly sincere. Tucking a strand of light blond hair behind her ear, she steps to the side of his bed. Up close, he can get an even clearer look at her face; she's young, only the trace of wrinkles around her eyes to indicate the passage of years.

“I guess I am,” he says as he places the water back down; his voice sounds rough and scratchy even to his own ears, and he can barely stifle a grimace.

“I'm glad to hear it,” the nurse replies, apparently oblivious to or ignoring the weakness in his voice, then laughs a little to herself. “Oh, where are my manners? I think I forgot to introduce myself.” She gestures to the nametag on her chest and speaks the name as he reads it. “I'm Anna. I've been taking care of you for the past couple of days.”

It's a moment before her words truly set in, and then he can feel his panic start to build up again – anything at all could have happened during that time – before doing the best he can to stifle it and asking - “Couple of days? How long have I been here, exactly?”

“Well, maybe 'a couple of days' isn't the best choice of words. Your friends got you flown in here late last night, and it's about-” she turns her wrist to glance at a watch - “one o'clock now. So not even a day, really. And I'd certainly like to know how even someone like you comes across such severe injuries, but it's been made very clear not to ask questions. Regardless, you seem to be healing up quite well. At this rate, you'll probably be checking out tomorrow morning. If you ask me, you're ready to go now, but the Doc wants to keep you overnight for observation,” she says with a smile. “I guess that serum really works wonders – oh, your pillow! That doesn't look very comfortable – do you mind if I fix it for you?”

Mildly taken aback by the sudden shift in topic – and by the unsettling knowledge that this woman, who he has never seen before, could know something like that about his history - Bucky nods, and then moves to sit up. Maybe that's what it's like to be a celebrity, anyway – less glitz and glamour, more paparazzi and private secrets that turn out to be surprisingly public. Steve would probably know. And speaking of Steve - “My, uh, friends – have you seen them recently?”

Anna nods, reaching around his head to shake his pillow – if he'd really been out for that long, it must've gotten flat – with one wrist on each side of him, not more than a few inches away. He can feel the heat emanating from her veins, hear every tick of her heartbeat and he expects every moment to feel the urge to strike. They're only in that position for a few seconds at most, but Bucky knows that, normally, even that amount of temptation would've driven him crazy – at least after going without for so long. But now, surprisingly, no hunger comes. Maybe they really did dope him up – or even give him some sort of blood transfusion; he supposes his injuries might've been severe enough for that, and looking at the small circular marks on his right forearm, either one could be possible. Or maybe he just has more important things on his mind right now.

He isn't even able to completely finish this train of thought before Anna pulls away, standing up fully and speaking – answering his question, he realizes belatedly, as if it's already been minutes since he asked.

“Oh, sure I have,” she says. “I'd even say I saw that redhead girl less than an hour ago – I swear I've seen her somewhere before, I just can't figure out where.” She pauses for a moment, a look of confused concentration temporarily coming over her face, quickly replaced by one of awe. “And who could forget seeing Captain America _and_ Iron Man coming into their hospital?” 

Bucky's sure his relief at hearing of their safety shows on his face, but he can't help but chuckle a little at that. The idea of Steve –  _his_ Steve, who he had cared for for so long and dragged out of so many ill-advised fights – being a national icon wasn't exactly new, but it was things like this – the way strangers talked about him as if he were a Greek god come down to Earth or some heartthrob movie star or something else altogether – that had always really cemented the weirdness for him.

“Well, if you see any of them, could you tell them I want to see them?” he asks, pleased to hear that his voice already seems to be regaining most of its regular strength.

“Will do,” she responds assuredly. “And I've got a feeling one of them will show up sooner rather than later.” She pauses, surveying the room as if to make sure everything is in its proper place. “Well, if there isn't anything else you need, I think it's about time for me to do my rounds. But if I do happen to see your friends, I'll be sure to send them your way.”

“Thank you, Anna,” he replies, and doesn't miss the slight blush come over her face when she hears her name.

And then she's gone, leaving him alone with only the blank white walls for company and nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat to fill his head.

 

His first visitor is Natasha. Anna was right – it's only about an hour before she shows up, and despite the monotony of his surroundings, it passes quickly. In fact, Bucky is in a half-asleep daze by the time he hears her faint knock on the frame of his door. He's sure she could have slipped in silently without him noticing, but this time she chose not to – probably in an attempt not to disturb him any further. Since she gave warning, however, her presence is unmistakable; he hears the steady pounding of her heart, the gently padding of her feet on the linoleum floor, and blinks open his eyes to see her, looking slightly tired but otherwise unaffected, walking towards his bed.

At the sight of her – here and real and  _safe –_ he's struck again by that feeling of relief, although this time it's not quite as strong. Still, he can't keep himself from smiling at the sight of a familiar face, regardless of how morally ambiguous that face might sometimes be.

“Hey,” she says, calmly, taking a precarious seat beside him on the bed.

“Hey,” he responds, his mind devoid of anything else to say. However, as if on cue, Natasha starts speaking again – and this time her words answer the questions that had materialized the moment he woke up and then dissipated on her arrival.

“Stark says you can still work on this mission,” she says. “That is, if you still want to.” Bucky isn't sure if that last comment comes from Stark or Nat, but either way, the source is irrelevant. The damage is done and he intends to continue.

He nods, but for a long moment, doesn't say anything.

“What did you tell them?” he finally asks; he almost adds 'about why I fell', and then thinks otherwise.

“I said you got a panic attack. The first time you've seen that kind of violence since your time as the Winter Soldier – maybe it was a bit too similar to one of your old missions.”

“Huh,” he says; really, that's all he needs to say. It certainly isn't that far from the truth.

Then, because he couldn't live without knowing, he asks, “Did you know – about the bodies? The way there were...” He doesn't need to finish the question; he lets his voice trail off, knowing that Natasha will still understand his meaning.

Now it's Natasha's turn to hesitate. She looks uncomfortable, almost pained – almost exactly the way she looked on the helicopter, before telling him she was worried what he might do if their mission got bloody. And the first word from her mouth is exactly the same, as well - “Yes.” When he doesn't respond, she repeats, more audibly and perhaps more confidently, “Yes. Yes, I knew.”

He thinks absently how the confession should make him angry, how it should piss him off to the third degree that the only person he's come close to trusting since he came back has hidden something this massive from him. And hell, if Natasha knew, Steve probably knew too – that should bother him even more, but then again, it's not like Steve knows the truth about him. But the only thing he can feel is numb.

“Why didn't you -”

“Tell you?” A humorless smile crosses her face, than fades in a split second. “I don't know, really. Maybe I was just afraid that you might... leave. Steve-”

“Steve can take care of himself,” Bucky spits, and almost flinches at how harshly it comes out. “He can live without me – has been for years now,” he corrects, only a tiny bit more softly.

“Maybe he can, on the surface,” Natasha counters, an indiscernible look on her face, not breaking eye contact. “But you haven't seen him at his worst. When you left, James – it crushed him.”

At her last remark, Bucky can barely suppress a pang of guilt – memories of those months come back in full force, memories of nothing but feeding and killing and empty celebration. Memories without a single thought of the man he left behind. “So if you knew where I was the whole time, why didn't you at least tell him that?”

“Because I know better than to give false hope to a man in mourning,” she nearly snaps. For a moment, she's silent – thoughtful. “And not even I can see the future. You have to realize that at the time, you didn't exactly seem interesting in rekindling old friendships.”

Again, the images of the past few months fill his head. He tries to shake them away.

“Speaking of old friendships,” he says, “have you seen Steve lately?”

Natasha nods, and this time her smile is genuine. “Would you mind if I text him and tell him you're awake?”

“I'd appreciate it,” he replies, a smile of his own starting to appear. “And one more thing – whoever did this might still be out there, and I have a feeling they're not going to stop until they find me. It might be best if you stay here, at least for tonight.”

“I can look after myself,” she replies, still smiling, but there's something about her voice that tells him otherwise.

 

Steve arrives no more than thirty minutes later – time enough for Natasha to pull out her phone, send a text – Bucky wonders if it's in her usual text-speak, or actual English, and considers asking, but realizes criticizing one of the world's greatest assassins on her grammar might not be the best idea – and slink out of the room. At first he had hoped that he might be able to get some more sleep, but as soon as Natasha's left, he finds it practically impossible. Not to mention that by now he's finally remembered the last time he and Steve really talked, and the memory of slamming the door on Steve's face isn't helping to get rid of his vague sense of existential dread.

He's so preoccupied with his own anxieties that he barely notices when Steve walks into the room; unlike Natasha, he doesn't give a knock to signal his arrival, but a man that size doesn't exactly require a warning to be noticed. Also unlike Natasha, Steve looks visibly shaken – he's wearing a wrinkled hoodie and sweatpants, his hair hanging in unwashed clumps around an abnormally pale face, with dark circles under his eyes that look almost like bruises. Despite all that, however, his face lights up the moment his eyes land on Bucky, who can't keep from grinning back. Steve walks to the edge of Bucky's bed and for a second he looks flustered, his hands twisting together in front of him. After another moment, his smile drops – his temporary relief gone, replaced by something that looks a lot like guilt. Steve breathes a hefty sigh as if steeling himself for some horrible blow, and then says, “I'm sorry.”

He wasn't sure what Steve was going to say – maybe reprimand him for being so damn stupid and reckless, maybe start crying - but he certainly hadn't anticipated an apology. Maybe he should have, given Steve's history of blaming himself for anything and everything that goes wrong. But things are so different now that the idea hadn't even occurred to him. Startled into silence, he attempts to form a coherent response - “none of this is your fault” would've worked quite well - but all he can manage to do is make some sort of unintelligible grunt.

He's interrupted by Steve before he's even able to get a real word out. “Please, just let me finish.” He's about to retort something back, but the response is lost when he takes another look at Steve's face. The man looks miserable, crushed even. Broken, as if all he's done for the past day is spend sleepless hours worrying about losing his best friend for the third – and most likely final – time.

“I'm sorry,” Steve repeats. “About the way I acted the other night. At your apartment – I pushed you into this mission when you've been back for less than a week, and you could've gotten hurt,you  _did_ get hurt-” 

Now he can't keep himself from interrupting – can't let Steve go on like this. “I'm fine, Steve,” he says, making sure his voice is steady as he does so. “Whatever they did to me – whatever bastardized version of that serum they gave me – it's  _working_ . Look,” he continues, and sees Steve visibly flinch as he swings himself out of the bed, standing up until they're nearly eye to eye. Bucky is half expecting to see himself covered in bruises and welts, at the very least. Instead, he looks down and sees his two arms – one of flesh and blood, the other of metal – his legs, his feet, his hands – every single one of them completely clear except for a fading purple bruise above one of his knees. He can tell Steve sees it all too, when his eyes widen first from concern and then from something like awe.

“Anyone else would've died from a fall like that,” he says, almost breathless.

“Well, apparently not me,” Bucky responds. “and need I remind you that you wouldn't either, Captain America – or did the tights cut off too much of the circulation to your brain?”

Something about this last comment strikes Steve as incredibly hilarious; one second he's looking as serious as can be, the next he's practically doubled over, one hand clutching his chest and the other clutching a corner of the bed as he attempts to breathe through fits of laughter. It isn't long before Bucky joins him, not least of all because of the funny look Steve gets on his face when he laughs. He wonders what the nurse would think if she walked in on them now – probably that they were a couple of lunatics, but – at least in Steve's case – famous ones.

After a few moments both of them are able to calm down, inhaling deep gasps of hospital air to fill their aching lungs.

“That's gonna hurt like hell tomorrow,” Bucky breathes, even though it might not be entirely true – at least not for them. Already, he can feel his body beginning to heal; the soreness would probably be gone for him in a matter of minutes, and for Steve, even faster.

Steve cracks another smile, but manages to keep himself from going into another full-fledged laughing fit. Instead, he looks Bucky in the eyes in a way that would almost be cheesy if it wasn't so damn sweet.

“I'm really glad to have you back, Buck,” Steve says.

“I'm glad to be back – punk,” Bucky adds.

“Jerk.” Steve smirks. And then his hand are on Bucky's cheeks, and he's leaning in. For a precarious second his face hovers about an inch from Bucky's, close enough for him to feel Steve's breath – still somewhat heavy from exertion – on his cheek. And then he leans in even farther.

Their second kiss is far better than the first. This time, it's like returning to a natural rhythm, like repeating history, their bodies fitting against each other like they were meant to be there. And this time, for whatever reason, the hunger is still dormant – while Bucky can sense Steve's pulse, no more than a few inches away, he has absolutely no desire other than being with Steve, right here, right now. Now  _this_ would be a sight for the nurse to walk in on.

When they pull away, they're both out of breath again; just like the first time, Steve's face is pink, and Bucky's certain that his is too.

They stand like that, still trying to catch their breath and seemingly unable to move, as if doing so would rupture whatever thing had begun to return between them, for longer than Bucky cares to remember. Eventually, though, Steve breaks the silence, the smile falling from his face as he does so.

“I should probably go,” he says. “It's starting to get late, and you need your rest.”

Bucky is surprised by how much this simple phrase impacts him – Natasha's confession earlier, that she knew people like him were being killed and didn't tell him, somehow didn't affect him nearly as much as this. At once all the energy seems to leave his body, his smile also fades, and he sits down on the bed with a faint _thwump_. Part of it is concern about whatever or whoever's still out there, but the rest – the rest must be some faded echo of what Steve felt after waking up on that shore, alone but beaten and with his best friend out of sight – permanently, for all he knew.

“But – see you in the morning, yeah?” Bucky asks, and his voice sounds almost like a child's.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Doctor told me you should be checking out then. Trust me, I'll be there.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says – short but sincere. Steve turns to go, but for a moment he looks back and Bucky thinks for a moment that maybe he might stay, just for a few more minutes or for the rest of the night, and either one would be fine with him – and then Steve does leave, and the door clicks shut behind him. After a moment the lights – probably motion-activated – shut off as well, and he's left in the darkness of the hospital room until morning.

 

He supposes he must have managed to fall asleep – actually fall asleep, for the first time in what feels like decades – because the next thing he knows, the door to his room is swinging open to admit Nat, Steve, and two men he doesn't recognize. One of them is large and burly, nearly bald, with a small badge pinned his chest labeling him as Security. The other is smaller, younger, and as intelligent-looking as appearances can convey intelligence; he has a bundle of clothing tucked under one of his arms, and before any of them even say anything, he quietly places it at the foot of the bed. Bucky guesses he's the doctor he's been hearing about, and his suspicion is confirmed when the man takes another step forward and introduces himself.

“Hello, Sargent Barnes,” he says, at once formal and cordial. “I'm Doctor Williamson. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” Bucky replies. “Great, actually.”  
“That's great to hear,” says Dr. Bates. “So I can assume you're about ready to check out?”

At Bucky's nod, he continues, “Well, this is going to be a bit of an unconventional process. Normally I'd have to take you to the front desk to get everything confirmed, but given the circumstances...” he trails off, giving a pointed look at Bucky - and his metal arm. Then he reaches into a labcoat, pulling out a folded paper and a pen from one of the pockets and handing them to Bucky. “Just sign this paper, please, and you'll be ready to go.” He pauses, and then adds, “Nothing odd about it.”

He takes a cursory glance over the paper, the pen hovering in his hand above it; it seems to be just routine stuff, like the doctor said, but at this point Bucky isn't one to sign papers blindly. Once he's satisfied that everything is within the realm of normalcy, he signs; immediately, the doctor plucks both the pen and the paper from his hands and stashes then back in his coat.

“Thank you very much, sir,” he says, and then gestures to first to the pile of clothing on the bed and then to Steve. “Captain Rogers here has been kind enough to lend you some of his clothes to wear for now,” he says. “The, uh, suit you were wearing when you came in has already been sent back to Mr. Stark. He's in the process of repairing it.”

Bucky nods gratefully, muttering a quiet thank-you to the doctor, but his eyes are on Steve; he sees Steve mouth back 'no problem'. Natasha remains stationary, but her eye move between him and Steve -for a moment it looks like she's about to say something, but before she's able to get a word out, the doctor is speaking again.

“Well, let's give the man some privacy,” he says, to the whole group, and then to Bucky, “When you're ready, we'll be right outside the door.”

Bucky nods again; this time, though, he doesn't say anything else, since the entire group has already begun shuffling out the door. When all of them are gone and he's certain he won't be interrupted, Bucky stands up, grabbing the clothes off the bed – a pair of gray sweatpants, what looks like a college t-shirt with about half the letters worn off, and some socks. At least they let him keep his own boxers.

The clothing in hand, he steps into the bathroom, separated by a thick wooden door from the main hospital room. He doesn't take his time changing, slipping out of the hospital gown and into Steve's clothes with little more than a glance in the mirror. By now even the bruise on his leg has healed, he realizes absentmindedly as he pulls up the legs of the sweatpants. To his relief, the clothing pretty much fits – if anything, the pants are just a little on the loose side. He guesses that's just one more small of how much things have changed.

Even before he leaves the bathroom, he can tell that the group outside of his room is talking amongst themselves – mainly in whispers, and even he can't pick out what they're saying from this distance. Given the tone of their voices, however, it's probably safe to assume they're talking about him. This suspicion is further cemented when he steps out of the bathroom, places the hospital gown, neatly folded, on the bed, and swings open the door to the hallway, only to find that they have all fallen silent and are looking at him with a kind of guilty-not-guilty expression – except for Natasha, who's still managing to keep up an air of cool disinterest about the whole thing.

Once they've taken a second to settle themselves from his appearance, the doctor is the one to speak first. “So, shall we go?” he asks.

“Hell yeah,” Bucky responds, and everyone laughs a little at that, though the tension still hasn't completely evaporated. Now Dr. Williamson lets the security guard take the lead; the latter begins walking down the hallway, glaring artificial lights drawing perhaps too much attention to his muscular arms. After a few seconds he takes one of those arms and gestures to the rest of the group, who had been staying maybe ten feet behind; all of them, Bucky included, edge in closer.

It's obvious almost from the beginning that they're taking a lesser-known route through the hospital – the narrowing hallways, dusty stairs, and occasionally flickering lights, all appearing in increasing frequency the longer they walk, attest to that – but what wasn't clear from the beginning was _why._ After a few moments, though, when Natasha and Steve haven't moved from their positions on either side of him, and everyone's faces – even the doctor's, who was lagging just a little behind – he realizes it must be because of him. Or, rather, because of the killer that's still out there somewhere – the killer that the team nearly caught less than thirty-six hours ago, the killer that almost definitely was trying to send him in particular some sort of morbid warning – though only he and Natasha would know that last part. Nonetheless, he – or she or it, or maybe they – could still be waiting for the seemingly weakened member of the team to reemerge, only to kill him once and for all as soon as he does so.

They're still a decent walk away from their intended exist – some side door or underground exit that would hopefully be more inconspicious, or at least more heavily guarded – when he realizes that that may not be the only reason. Even from that distance – which was rapidly getting closer with each step they took – he could hear hundreds, maybe thousands of voices and heartbeats, each one distinctly different but also unmistakably angry. It isn't long before the others hear it too; he feels Natasha go stiff beside him, hears Steve release a quiet swear, and the collective heart rate of the group maybe double.

By the time they're standing in front of the doors – a double set of huge, metal ones with a bar across them, maybe built with the first floor of the hospital during the uneasy days of the Cold War – the buzz has turned into a roar. At this point, he can start to pick out individual voices in the chaos, can hear far too many chanting “Death to the Winter Soldier” and other, more vivid things.

They stand together in front of the door for maybe thirty seconds, hesitating perhaps longer than was necessary. Natasha turns to him, placing her hand over his for a split second, squeezing, and letting go.

“You ready for this?” The security guard asks, quite possibly the first thing Bucky's actually heard him say. Finding himself unable to speak, he nods again; the guard pushes the door open and what Bucky sees is simultaneously exactly what he'd expected and somehow much, much worse.

The door opens into some kind of underground parking garage, but Bucky can't take in very much of it – there are too many people blocking his path, and his line of vision. His estimate earlier had certainly been right – there were hundreds, if not thousands of them. They had been shouting before – there was no doubt about that – but the mere sight of him seems to galvanize them even more. The chanting grows even louder and more furious, and crowd starts to close in around them. Again, he can hear Steve utter a curse beside him; none of them were supposed to know he was here. But somehow word's gotten out, and the horde around them isn't exactly to pleased to see the Winter Soldier. He catches a glimpse of a few signs – some relatively normal, saying things like 'Trial for the Traitor' but others, like the chanted phrases, unnecessarily grotesque. Of these, his personal favorite might be the one with the picture of him cut out from the newspaper – a noose was drawn around his throat, but there were no words; the image itself was enough to send a message. And there would be a hell of a lot more pictures for them to work with after tonight – everywhere he turns, there's another camera flash.

They move agonizingly slowly through the crowd with no physical destination that he can see; every second they get more and more intense, some going so far as to throw whatever they can find on the ground – he's hit with a penny and several empty soda cans within only a few seconds. As the mass of people tightens around him, so do Steve, Natasha, and the security guard, ready to defend him if need be. He thinks he sees Natasha reach for a knife.

And that's when he feels it. The hunger, which had been gone for the entirety of his actual stay in the hospital, has seemingly decided that now was the perfect time to return. And it doesn't come back gradually, either; he nearly doubles over with the force of it at first. The posture strangely reminds him of his laughing session with Steve no more than a few hours ago – even since then, things had changed drastically. He is acutely, painstakingly aware of every single pulse in the crowd, and his body aches to just reach out and _take_. Both Steve and Natasha turn to look at him in concern, but he can see from Natasha's eyes the she understands the true gravity of his situation.

Over Steve's shoulder he at last catches a glimpse of where they're headed – a white van, the Stark logo small but clearly distinguishable on the side, windows tinted nearly to the point of being opaque, parked maybe twenty-five feet away – but with the throng of people in the garage, it may as well have been a marathon. He senses Natasha trying to pick up the pace, her urgency clear despite the still relatively calm pace of her heart, and the other two trying desperately to match her. Some sort of heavy object comes flying at his face, too fast to identify clearly but fast enough to dodge – whatever it is crashes to the ground next to his feet, causing Steve to jump; the next moment it's gone, swept out of sight by the desperate speed of their tightly-packed group and the palpable fury of the crowd around them.

And with every second, the hunger gets more and more unbearable – he feels lie a man stranded in the ocean after a shipwreck, surrounded by water, _taunted_ by it, but unable to drink for fear of potentially fatal consequences. The difference between him and the hypothetical man, though, was that his death would come outside rather with within himself – if the public knew what he really was, if they even believed it, on top of all of the atrocities the Winter Soldier had committed, he'd be dead for sure – trial or no trial. But maybe, honestly, he wouldn't mind.

That thought is scattered when he realizes there is now maybe only five feet between them and the vehicle – the others clearly realize it too, because they push forwards even faster, even more frantically. And then suddenly, finally, they're there – the security guard swings the door open, and he, Steve and Natasha pile in in the backseat. As soon as he's inside, Bucky sits, huddled over, forcing every muscle to stay in place for fear of just what might happen if he let himself move. The door slams shut behind them, leaving the guard to make his way back to the hospital alone. But Bucky can't bring himself to care, and he doubts that the crowd would hurt him anyway – the person they really wanted was gone, had just barely escaped.

Without so much as a glance in the front seat to see who's driving, and with a voice that sounds maybe half as terrified as he actually is, Bucky orders, “Get me the hell out of here.”

 


End file.
